Winter's Dead
by November First
Summary: Kurapika races time and the Ryodan through the wreckage of better worlds. But Shooting Star is a dangerously easy place to get lost. (AU-ish.)


_For an Eye_

Part II: Winter's Dead

* * *

First to invoke the fanfiction muse: I don't own _HunterxHunter_.

And now for the obligatory author's note: This is the second part of an expanded narrative, and will ... probably-most-definitely-_not_-make-sense without reading the first, which is "Autumn's Children" and found on my profile. Originally, this was going to start posting last year, but extreme revision was required due to the survival of one particular character who knows too much and shall not be named. As it is, the setting is still December despite the fact that I'm posting it in July. Updates will be slow - for which I apologize.

Rated (in no particular order) for: language, alcohol, violence, intent to do violence, as well as disturbing things like Hisoka, the Ryodan, the Chimera, and death-curses.

* * *

**Prologue:** First to Fall

Chimera did not dream.

Sleep was an unbroken cycle of the body's renewal, but the hive-mind was always awake, always aware even in its somnolent hours.

Some nights, however, the Queen emerged from rest with an unknown taste on her tongue, unfamiliar vibrations in her ears—the invading urge to shed her carapace and walk, exposed and unprotected, up from darkness and … Go where?

She clicked her mandibles in confusion as she stalked on high-arched feet through her nest. Distended egg-sacs clung to the rough rock overhead with sticky, creeping tendrils. Crawling over ceiling and walls, workers tended to them without pause; their intelligence too limited to grasp the difference between her material presence and constant mental contact.

Distracted, her mind flicked through the possibility of ordering some of them to examine the flickering lights that still illuminated parts of her broken prison. Not all of her offspring were designed with superior vision. The ingenious devices of her – dead – human captors could be incorporated into the hatchery to better serve the requirements of the newborn.

It pleased her to think of their first impressions of the world being light and warmth, rather than darkness and cold … But the comfort of children was unnecessary. They would be stronger for facing adversity from their first breath. And strength was the true requirement of a Chimera.

Once again, her mind betrayed its own instincts.

The Queen waved her antennae, distressed. It was of some concern that this anomaly of thought might begin infecting her children. Some of the more recent minds were closed to her—still connected but strangely soured. As though they refused to tune themselves to the sweet, swelling chorus of the hive.

Chimera did not dream—and yet she had surprised foreign images and alien feelings in the thoughts of such children. The former lives of her human prey.

But they were the past, and it was not Chimera nature to concern itself with the past. There was only the present – _the Queen_ – and the future – _the King._

Clawed, segmented fingers brushed delicately across the underside of an egg.

Despite their failure to live up to the perfection that was to be her ultimate legacy, each child was precious to her. More so than genetic memory informed her they should be. And yet it was her place to conceive and nurture—twin imperatives so easily evolving into _cherish_ and _care_. Greater in substance than the vague non-dreams that urged her to depart, this affection bound her to stay.

Folding her segmented exoskeleton awkwardly, the Queen bent up to look on her unborn progeny. With great tenderness, her mind hummed to the nebulous consciousness cradled inside. Her unblinking eyes saw worlds reflected in hundreds of newly-beating hearts.

It was the organic growth of love from duty.

* * *

The bar, like everything else in town, had been decorated for the winter holiday—with a little more resentment than enthusiasm, Pakunoda suspected. The atmosphere inside was heavy with the press of too many people, too many different spices and perfumes, and the sour tinge of vomit from the toilets. Plastic garlands of evergreen gripped the frames of smudged windows, contributing as much to the ambiance of claustrophobia as the crowd and the dark outside.

Tucked into a booth by the backdoor, a spot chilly enough to create its own little buffer of empty space, the Spider sipped vodka and kept watch over one particular blond figure at the busy counter.

To all outward appearances, the chain-user was unassociated with the shady looking man lounging against the wall at her side. To a professional such as herself, they might as well have joined a choir and started caroling 'clandestine dealings are happening here.' She supposed, however, that it was a reasonably acceptable performance: a slip of paper was passed over as the press of people pushed them together, money changed hands in the opposite direction, and then the informant finished his drink and casually worked his way out the back.

_Not bad,_ Pakunoda admitted, the alcohol in her blood warming her against the blast of frigid air as the door swung open and shut behind him. _Painfully unoriginal, but competent execution._

Head down, she spent a couple of minutes admiring her new manicure before a shadow fell across the table.

"Spider." Kurapika ground the word out like cut glass. "I thought I lost you in Padokia."

"Your technique was amateur. Inconvenient, but amateur." Pakunoda paused a moment to appraise her, and observed with satisfaction, "God, chain-user, you look worse every time I see you."

Under the cozy lights of the bar, the Kurata's skin had turned sallow without softening: time-worn silk stretched too tight over what lay beneath. At least she had the sense to be wearing a nondescript outfit under her long overcoat, instead of that more eye-catching tribal wear—nothing as stylish as Pakunoda's tailored jacket and slacks, but suitable enough to the weather and backdrop … Although not even black contacts could disguise the heat of that glare.

"Don't test my patience, Spider."

"Oh, say something new," she scoffed, the after-taste of liquor smooth and caustic under her tongue. "Have a drink. Join me in celebrating the season."

The Kurata crossed her arms, restraining herself from physical violence and expressing disapproval all at the same time. How economical of her.

"Or you could continue to loom and call attention to yourself. It's not as though you have any reason to avoid notice."

That remark provoked an even sharper glare, but the last several months of infrequent interaction had rendered her somewhat impervious to such things. And, as Kuroro would say, _evidently_ taught the chain-user to swallow some of that reckless pride. With palpable reluctance, but still more reluctant to leave without knowing what nefarious deeds might be plotted behind her back, Kurapika slid into the seat across from her.

A candle guttered between them, illuminating its decorative display of little glass baubles.

"So," Paku's smile was pure poison, "murdered anyone lately?"

The girl across from her made a sharp sound, possibly grinding teeth. _Unhealthy_, Pakunoda smirked into her glass. An ambient babble of talk rose into the other's refusal to respond. Cardboard and tinfoil snowflakes swayed lazily from the ceiling fans above. A laughing couple, as much desperate as passionate, slammed into the table in a haze of alcohol fumes before stammering an apology and staggering back into the mill of people.

_Pedestrians._

Pakunoda continued smiling, blandly. The Kurata glared.

They held their positions in a cold war of silence that froze an incoming waitress to the other side of the bar.

"Pleasant as not talking to you is," Pakunoda said finally, folding her hands on the scarred wood of the table, "I do have something to say."

"Not interested."

_And yet you're still sitting across from me._ Pointing it out would only incite a quick departure, though, so she confined her opinion on the subject to a sardonic look. "I suppose you're also uninterested in the theft of a pair of Scarlet Eyes from a private collection in Kakin."

"One body-collector stealing from another makes no difference to me."

Paku smiled, taking great delight in imparting her knowledge. "Kuroro Lucifer stole them."

Kurapika's hands slammed down as she shot to her feet. The glass ornaments bounced a little at the sudden fury, clinking against each other.

"If that bastard so much as touches the Eyes, I swear I will _rip_—"

Pakunoda cut her off with an answering slam of her glass against the table. "Full of glad tidings and goodwill towards men, aren't you?" An elegant sneer curled her lip. The dregs of her drink splashed her hand, tingling across her knuckles. "But I have no way of relaying your threats on to their intended recipient, so sit back down and let's finish this wretched little affair before someone sober recognizes one of us."

Kurapika hissed something unintelligible, a thin ring of scarlet shining around the contacts coloring her eyes. Smoke from the candle curled up darkly between them.

_Monster. _Pakunoda's skin crawled with revulsion and the flush of alcohol. _Inhuman thing._

But she said none of that. Instead, she lowered her voice back into a more persuasive register. "Suspend the theatrics for a moment, and listen to me. You can't afford to make a mistake now." She waited until the chain-user had sunk back down into her seat before continuing. "That job was designed to attract one sort of attention: yours. I read the report of the theft very, very carefully. And I know how Kuroro operates. He's aware that you've got some way of tracking the Scarlet Eyes—Oh, don't look like that. It's obvious from the rate you've been picking them up." She dismissed the tangent with a haughty flick of her fingers. "The point is, he _wants_ you to follow the trail. Shooting Star makes the most likely destination."

"Don't be stupid. Such a plan would end in disaster. Just like York Shin."

"Whatever you say." Pakunoda brushed lint off her sleeve, playing at disinterest. "I only came to warn you."

"To stay away from your city."

She laughed at the cliché. "Even you couldn't do anything to Shooting Star, girl. No, as I've said many times before, I'm just here to ensure that you survive to break the curse. Even if it means tipping you off to the leader's plans."

"Traitor," Kurapika accused, unduly offended by such dishonorable behavior.

_How sweet._ The Spider suppressed a vulgar snort. _It must be nice to be so naïve._

"If betraying the Ryodan keeps it alive, so be it."

Her unwilling companion shook her head, either in denial or disgust. Paku's nails scratched into varnished wood as they curled into claws against the tabletop. She suddenly felt too sober for this conversation.

"Shooting Star isn't as friendly as York Shin, Kurapika. Do try not to fuck yourself over this time."

She hadn't meant to say that last bit, but it escaped her mouth anyway. Vodka wasn't the only thing testing her tolerance levels. The smile accompanying that thought felt more than a little mismatched to her intentions.

_My cue to leave, I think. _She stood before either of them could do anything else to shred the flimsy pretext of civility that allowed them to keep using each other—and for a miracle the Kurata didn't make any move to stop her.

Good intentions only got as far as the backdoor, however.

"Oh, and Kurapika?" Under the mistletoe-hung lintel, the Spider blew a mocking kiss. "Merry Christmas."

* * *

The door hadn't even shut behind the Spider before Kurapika was up, fighting her way through the boisterous crowd to the bathroom. It was little more than a closet with a toilet and a sink—but it also had privacy and a door that locked. Her reflection followed her in the mirror: a warped parallel image as she turned the bolt home.

She needed a moment of space to collect her thoughts after the previous conversation.

If she had been forced to learn anything about her unwanted stalker of the last few months, it was that Pakunoda was always composed, always professional. The Spider seemed to operate on the awareness that, although Kurapika would refuse any active help, she couldn't bring herself ignore information that might make the difference between gaining or losing a pair of Scarlet Eyes. So the older woman turned up at odd moments, insulted and criticized and offered backhanded tips on Kurapika's current target that consistently proved true—as galling as that was to admit.

But the conversation always ended when the subject of the massacre came up; Pakunoda would insist that there was more to the story, and Kurapika would snap with self-disgust at the reminder that she was speaking to someone who had murdered her family.

For the first time, however, it hadn't been mentioned. Either the Spider let it slip her mind, or she had decided the current situation was too important to risk alienating her already skeptical audience.

And, more than what Pakunoda had or hadn't said, it was her appearance that was convincing. A dangerous thing to trust with a expert liar—but the woman had obviously been drinking for some time, and her abrupt shifts in mood and tactic were … uncharacteristically revealing. To see that self-possessed mask crack was a better argument for her sincerity than any polished speech she'd been subjected to in the past.

_A good enough argument to merit disproving, anyway._

Someone pounded on the bathroom door, a voice raised in garbled demand that broke her thoughts. Kurapika slammed her foot back in response, the sturdy wood shuddering under her heel. The person on the other side retreated in a fading litany of profanity.

Safe from immediate interruption, she withdrew a much-folded map from the breast pocket of her heavy coat.

She carried it with her everywhere, now.

Judging the mirror to be the cleanest surface, she spread out the map and held it against cracked glass. The smell of soap and disinfectants stung her lungs as she inhaled, along with the heavier odor of an oft-used toilet. Breathing out, she shunted all awareness of her surroundings aside. The chains materialized, metal links warming as they coiled around her wrist.

Six red crosses marked the resting places of the Eyes she'd retrieved—the curses she'd buried and the souls she'd set free.

_Thirty more steps before I lose my way._

A mental command sent the dowsing chain swinging across the face of the map as she held it up one-handed, checking each marked location that indicated the pairs she had yet to recover. It was a familiar ritual that she performed every few weeks: the calming reminder that nothing and no one could come between her and her tribe's remains. According to Pakunoda, however, the Spider once again sought to interfere.

Hatred dug a sharp line at the corner of her mouth.

Kakin was a well-populated nation; two pairs of Scarlet Eyes held in private collections there last she checked. The first was still in place. The second was moving.

The insistent tug of the dowsing chain drew her finger down the yellow line of a railroad, slowing as she caught up to the theives' progress.

Kurapika hissed, the hum of her nen rising to the furious pitch of swarming hornets.

It was true, the Spider had the Eyes.

_Someone_ had the Eyes. Pakunoda's word could not be trusted ... But she knew, with all the stabbing sharpness of a gut-wound, that this could only mean one thing.

Blood ached in her ears and face. A burning cough doubled her up, the map escaping her grasp and sliding down to the wet counter. Water soaked through the stiff paper, notations beginning to run in swirls and splotches of red ink. Trembling, her fingers closed over the rim of the sink.

The Spider had the Eyes.

Empty as her stomach was, she couldn't stop retching.

* * *

"You want to join the Ryodan?"

Kuroro didn't look up from his book as he asked the redundant question – the inattention a test, perhaps too obvious – thumbing past another page.

"Yes."

The voice was soft, not yet broken by adolescence, but carried no undercurrent of hesitation.

"Any particular reason?"

This time, there was a slight pause—consideration of the best response, or awareness that too quick an answer would reveal it as rehearsed? Another page rustled as it turned. His eyes scanned the text automatically, information catalogued for later analysis.

"I wish to improve my skills."

Said with a hint of defiance. For Kuroro, or some other factor perceived as impeding the desired improvement? Either way, it was distinct enough to prompt him to lower the book for the first time since Hisoka escorted the hopeful applicant into the small apartment.

The empty room was dark, the principle source of light and only furnishings being Shalnark's row of computer monitors. Still, the place was bright enough for a first impression. Kuroro took stock of the new-comer from his seat in the windowsill.

A boy: young, pretty, and dressed in a girl's kimono.

_Well, at least he's willing to uphold the Ryodan tradition of breaking sartorial norms._

His stillness was commendable, however, indicating good things about his capacity for stealth and patience. That he was here at all spoke well for his nerves. As for ambition … they all aspired to something.

At his shoulder, Hisoka hovered with unusual interest—their double shadows twisting against bare walls in the capricious light. Kuroro lifted a silent brow of enquiry. Perhaps the interest not so unusual; Hisoka's tastes were questionable, but well-known. Although, under the circumstances, he suspected that the boy was likely to be the manipulative predator of this situation.

_More than likely, given where he came from._

"Very well." The timing couldn't have been more convenient, actually. "Hisoka, I have a mission for you. Find Shizuku, take her and the rookie."

At his bank of computer screens, Shalnark's steady typing faltered. But the other Spider said nothing, so after a beat Kuroro continued smoothly on to outline his orders.

"The chain-user is being funded by person or persons unknown. I want to know where those funds come from." He added the specifics after as an afterthought, "Anything you can dig up on the Kurata tribe's culture, history, and origin is, of course, also relevant. Information about the value of Scarlet Eyes and their locations is useless. Do not approach the chain-user herself or allow your investigation to affect her movements in any way."

Hisoka continued to grin, but his eyes slanted in speculation. It was unusual for him to be sent on a fact-finding mission. _A fact-finding mission that doesn't involve torture of the target,_ Kuroro amended. It was also unusual to imply that he was the nominal leader. _Between him, Shizuku, and a new member, however … there's really no choice._

After a moment the magician bowed with an elaborate flourish, and left without a word. _Unusual after all._ His behavior since York Shin had been … subdued. Or perhaps Kuroro's expectations misled him; outside of missions, he avoided excessive socialization with the man.

A soft shift of fabric drew him from reflection—The boy was still standing in the middle of the room. _Waiting for attention in a passive demand._ Another note to add to the mental file. Kuroro didn't give him encouragement, but he did nod in tacit permission.

"Don't you wish to test my abilities?"

And there were the matching notes of hesitance and defiance again. Touchy to prove himself then.

Kuroro flicked him a glance, cold despite the smile. "That won't be necessary."

_The Spider isn't here to validate your sense of self-worth._

This time the dismissal was too obvious to ignore. The boy followed in the footsteps of the now-vanished Hisoka, the door closing silent behind him.

Kuroro studied its scratched doorknob a moment. He had deliberately avoided asking for a name, and none had been offered. Evidence of either discretion or an unwillingness to contravene authority … The first was preferable, given the current mindset of the Ryodan at large. Personal loyalty was flattering, but had the problematic tendency to translate into unthinking obedience.

_Speaking of which ..._

"You know he's a Zaoldyek, right?" asked Shalnark from his corner, spinning his swivel-chair around long enough to express doubt. "We've bumped heads with his family before. (More than once, actually.) If it comes to a choice between us or them … Do you think we can trust him?"

Indifferent, Kuroro picked up his book again.

"You know what they say about friends and enemies, Shal."

He could practically hear the other Spider struggling with the impulse to question his decision to send Hisoka and Shizuku, and the unknown quantity of a rookie, on a meaningless errand. Kuroro didn't blame him; unless this new child concealed an unsuspected font of charisma under his quiet surface, the team dynamics were likely to be detrimental to any mission. And they had a critical operation coming up. To all outward appearances, he was wasting resources on idle curiosity.

But Shal should be smart enough to figure this one out on his own.

The silence lengthened, undiminished, and eventually he was absorbed back into a rather fascinating account of Ajien folklore. Research and entertainment in a single volume; he wanted to finish it before Machi's team returned with the Scarlet Eyes and the mission took precedence over reading. The light from the computers was dim, probably ruining his vision, but he was used to that. In the background, it took Shalnark much longer than usual to re-submerge himself in his digital world.

Behind his cover of paper and ink, Kuroro smiled.

* * *

Pakunoda's phone rang as she was crossing through a snowy park, breathing the silken night air and indulging the glow of a job well accomplished. Bare branches of frost-silvered trees creaked, their shadows interlocked under the streetlamps. Still pleasantly warmed by her time in the bar, she picked up the call before she remembered that no one should know her new number.

"Hello?"

"Hello, Pakunoda. Enjoying your holiday?"

Reality crashed down, stone-cold sober, and her shoes scraped to a halt on the salted concrete.

"You utter bastard." Her breath clouded out in disbelieving, icy white. "I've been calling you since September."

"I noticed." As always, the man's voice was an easy, laid-back drawl. "It seems we're both unreliable."

"_Unreliable?_" she fumed, for once in no mood for verbal sparring. "Unreliable is forgetting to cancel a lunch date. Not ignoring my calls for _four months_ while the Kurata—"

"That tribe is quite extinct. You should know."

"One of them is alive."

"Oh?" He sounded unfazed. But then, he'd probably known all along. "Bad news for you, then. Especially after you botched the job in the first place."

Her nails scratched on the phone's plastic casing.

"I admire a woman with initiative, Paku, but I'm not willing to forgive and forget like Kuroro Lucifer. Remember—you betrayed _me_ too."

He disconnected, apparently having called for the sole purpose of winding her up.

She wouldn't put it past him, either; he was like that. She should know, their … association had ended badly for them both. Salt stung her painted lips, and she realized that she was biting her nails again.

All feelings of self-satisfaction gone, she wrapped her dark woolen jacket tighter and hurried out of the park.

Her fingers dug into the layers of fabric over her heart, as though she could dig out the chain still wrapped around it. The damned chain that held her back at every turn. A twist of contempt soured her mouth. _That damned girl. _None of this would be happening if she would just put aside prejudice and _listen_ for once.

None of this would be happening at all if she'd had the good grace to die like all the others.


End file.
